


And the Moon Hits the Water

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your father has always said that, out of the two of you, out of you and Sammy, well, you’d never be the one to run away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Moon Hits the Water

**AND THE MOON HITS THE WATER**  
SUPERNATURAL  
John/Sam; John/Dean; Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; unrequited love

  
Your father has always said that, out of the two of you, out of you and Sammy, well, you’d never be the one to run away. For as much as he pushes Sam, for as much as he yells at him to do the adult thing, to do the right thing and just follow his orders for once, follow his lead and just embrace all these lies, the fake IDs and credit card scams, hunting things, saving people, being the superheroes that nobody even knows, for as much as your father pushes and taunts and challenges, he’s always figured that Sam would never stick around in the long run. You and your obedient soldier act, you’re not the one he turns to, you’re not the one that reminds him that he has a living, breathing family, not just memories of Mary, her skin, her smell, her taste, and, oh, the heat of that fire, but you’re the one that he can always count on.

You’re the one that’s always there.

Sam breathes books and girls and normal high school things, spends most of his time in clean libraries instead of the dust and demons and folklore of Bobby’s place, spends most of his time learning calculus and anatomy, the thick scratches of pencil on paper that he calls homework. And Sam doesn’t like moving as many times as your family has, doesn’t like the new town vibe, the fresh start, all this new unexplored territory, all these new wonders, Sam just gripes about lost friends, mourns first dates he’ll never have. Ever since you dropped out of school, all the research you do regards hunts and all the math and science, well, that’s more curves and short skirts and the smell of perfume and hairspray against your mouth, all the girls you’ll only ever know by taste because you always forget their names in the morning.

Your father tells Sam to be more like you, but you know he doesn’t mean it. You know he’s only lying. Your father yells and curses and threatens, tells Sam that if he leaves, if he finally runs away for good like he’s always promised, that freedom of college hanging over both of them, tells Sam that if he even tries, he’s out. No coming back, no refuge, no family, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Those nights, you snort as you hear it, this new town, this new house, you laugh quietly to yourself, the muffled anger outside your locked door, all that tension, they’re only fooling themselves. They’re only pretending. When Sam leaves, well, your father would crawl to him on broken glass if that would get him to come back.

Those nights, you pretend you don’t hear the muted moans, the angry slide of skin on skin, this smell of blood and sex, this release of tension like a huge sigh of relief, like a cloud has been lifted. Cranking the volume on your stereo as high as it can possibly go, you pretend you don’t hear the thumps against the wall, the creak of the bed frame, those things you’ve only ever wished for, those sounds you’ve only ever dreamed of. The way you lie down with honey gold skin, soft and sweet and gentle, and pray for angles and muscles and aftershave, whiskey and charms drawn in black felt tip marker, dust that permeates the air, the way you can just hear him calling your name, his fingers in your mouth, his hand wrapped hard around your bicep, hard enough to leave bruises.

Those nights, you pretend it’s his fingers creeping down the open v of your jeans, your eyes closed so tight, your breath so still, those nights, you pretend it’s his voice moaning in your ear, the way you move your hand up to your throat, the way you press so hard, the flicker of stars against the inside of your eyelids, those nights, you pretend it’s his teeth biting the bottom of your lip until it swells with blood.

Your father saying, Don’t you ever leave us, don’t you ever go. Like it’s a real choice, like he could ever promise that. Like this isn’t all just a big game, like this actually matters. Your father saying, Don’t you dare pretend to go out there and live a normal life. And the way Sammy looks when he says, No. When he says, Not normal. When he says, Safe. Like that’ll happen. Like you three aren’t fucked up enough to realize that you’ll never be safe, never be normal or happy or able to just let everything go. Like you can ever really retire from this, like, really, like this is just some sort of fucking job. Like this isn’t your whole life.

You father saying, Why can’t you just be like Dean?

You breathe weapons and demons and saving people, stopping evil, but it’s not because you like it, it’s not because you get off on being the hero, swooping in to save the day, seeing the victim to comfort all the way in to the bedroom, it’s not like this is some sort of higher calling, really. You breathe the open road, the slow purr of the Impala underneath your fingertips, pushing the pedal all the way down to the floor and watching the speedometer needle creep higher and higher, this isn’t your destiny, really, it’s just an addiction. This is what you’ve been taught, this is all you know. The pedestal you pretend your father puts you on, this is nothing you’ve been bred to do, it’s just some stupid tale of revenge that’s lasted seventeen years to the day your mother was killed, the day your father finally got wise to the truth that was out there, the day your family got shot into this personal kind of hell. You breathe magic and curses and old wives tales, the hum in your veins when you recite spells, the surge of adrenaline, the sound of a shotgun being cocked, the feel of the extra shells made of rock salt in your pocket. You breathe danger, but it’s not like you asked for it, really, it just kind of happened.

Your father saying, This is what your family is. This is what you are. You can’t deny that. Your father saying, You can’t deny us. And, really, like you’re even part of the equation anymore. Really, like you’ve ever been.

Those nights they argue, those nights that are something more, Sam and his stupid obsession with normal and safe and happy, with girls that will never know the truth, that will fall in love and marry and bear his children but will never meet his father, will never know his dirty little secrets, those nights your father cries as he touches Sam, as he violates everything you’ve ever known. Those nights you lie in bed with your ear pressed up against the wall, pretending you don’t care, pretending you aren’t hearing what you’re hearing, even as your fingers creep further and further down your body, tuck themselves underneath your boxers and make you gasp at the touch, make you tremble and clamp your mouth down so hard. Those nights you pretend that the murmurs you hear from Sam, the mention of his name over and over and over, your father’s name, well, the way your teeth draw blood from your mouth, from your tongue, those nights, you pretend that it’s your name you hear. Those nights, you pretend it’s you kissing Sam goodnight, rough and angry and loud, messy enough to leave a circle shaped bruise at the corner of his mouth, a bruise he tries to hide in the morning, a bruise you wish you could touch.

Your father saying, Why can’t you be more like Dean? But he doesn’t mean it, because it’s not you underneath him on those nights, it’s not you who he kisses, loves, touches with anger and certainty and frustration, but mostly devotion, affection, love. It’s not you he loves with his strong hands, his fists, his teeth, it’s not your name he moans so loud it cuts through the screeching of your stereo, the thrashing guitars, the vibration of the bass. Your father saying, Why can’t you ever just follow orders? But he doesn’t mean it, because obedience must not be a huge turn on if he’s never laid a hand on you, no matter how hard you’ve wished for it, how hard you’ve prayed, how hard you’ve fantasized about being the problem child, like Sam, just like Sammy.

Your father has always said that, out of the two of you, out of you and Sammy, your fucking family, your father has always said that you’d never leave him, that normal life that you’ve never wanted, this life that you’ve only ever know, your father has always said that you’d never stray like Sam. Your father has always said that you know what’s right, you know what needs to be done and how to do it, you know what the higher road is in the end. Your father has always said that you’re the one who’s gonna turn out okay in this mess, whatever goes down, whatever happens when this revenge story finally ends. Your father saying, Dean knows what he’s supposed to do and he does it. Just like every little boy should.

Your father saying, Dean’s the best son a man could ask for.

***

The day you run away, well, it’s such a shame that you leave before you can even laugh in your father’s face.


End file.
